Last Fic Writer Standing
by LinziDay
Summary: Various h/c fics, all submissions for the Last Fic Writer Standing challenge at LJ. . . OMG, which I won! Most fics between 400 and 1,000 words. Prompts for the rounds, ratings, and any spoilers listed at the top of each fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Why Rodney McKay Refuses To Set Foot on PX1-124 Ever Again  
**Author:** linziday  
**Rating:** PG13  
**A/N:** Beta-ed by the fabulous and lightning fast kriadydragon (Stealth Dragon)  
**Prompt for the Round:** Write a story featuring the team in which ONLY dialogue is used. No scene setters at all. Just pure dialogue. Not even '... Sheppard said' or '... Rodney complained'. All must speak at least once.

* * *

"How you doing there, Rodney?"

"I hate this planet."

"I know you do, buddy."

"I hate the woods, Sheppard. I hate the unmarked paths. I hate tripping over the stupid tree roots."

"Yeah."

"Oh, hey, and you know what? The sucking mud holes. Did I happen to mention the sucking mud holes? I really — _ugh_ — hate the mud holes."

"Dunno, McKay, this one seems to like you."

"Yes, thank you, Ronon. Because jokes are really what I need right now. Not, oh I don't know, _getting the hell out of here_!"

"Crap! Rodney, stopstopstop. You thrash around like that and you're going to sink faster."

"I can't — this is — "

"Easy, buddy. C'mon, you're all right."

"I am in no way _all right!_"

"You are. You're all right. Just breathe, okay? In. Out. That's it. Take it easy and breathe. You're okay."

"I'm. . . okay."

"You're okay."

"I'm… okay."

"Sorry, McKay. Bad joke. "

"Just hate… this."

"Not much longer, buddy. Teyla will be back soon."

"With the salt. . . stuff?"

"Yeah, with the salt stuff they use to dry up the mud holes around here. Then we can pull you out, no problem"

"Natives… hated us… though. Said we…"

"But they love Teyla. They'll give her whatever she wants."

"God, I hope. . . I hope. . so."

"Mud's past his chest now. It's taking him faster, Sheppard."

"I can. . . hear you… you know"

"Hey, Rodney, let's try something, okay? Lean back, relax your body and kinda float on your back."

"I. . . no."

"No? Why not?"

"Can't.…float. Always. . . sink."

"You're not going to sink. Not if you relax."

"Wanna….bet?"

"Rodney, listen, this stuff is squeezing your chest now. You're having trouble getting enough air, that's why you can't catch your breath. You need to take some of the pressure off. Floating will do that."

"I… dammit."

"What?"

"You're…right."

"Wait, what was that?"

"You're… oh… shut up."

"C'mon, on your back. I'll gloat about being right later."

"You…jerk."

"There you go. Head back."

"I — "

"Relax. Let your arms and legs go."

"That's… hey. Hey, floating."

"How're you doing? Easier to breathe?"

"Yeah, better. Not perfect. But… better."

"Sheppard, you sure we shouldn't try to pull him out again?"

"It only made things worse. The damn sinkhole just tightens its grip."

"Better access the way he is now."

"I don't want to risk it. If he sinks even another inch we'll lose him."

"Floating, not deaf here."

"We'll give Teyla another few — "

"I am here. I have it."

"Oh, thank god, Teyla! Get me out. Please. Now. Now's good."

"Here, take handfuls of salt from the sack and throw it around Rodney. It will harden the mud at once."

"Gah! '_Around_ Rodney' she said. Not at me ­— "

"Rodney, stop! Shit. Grab him."

"Ronon — "

"Got him. _Uck_."

"I…."

"Where is the first aid kit? He will need —"

"I…."

"How you doing, buddy?"

"I…hate this planet."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Interrupting a Family Moment  
**Author:** linziday  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**A/N:** Beta-ed by the fabulous (and lightning fast) kriadydragon (Stealth Dragon)  
**Prompt for the Round:** It MUST be told using an original character point of view (the marine guarding the gateroom, the guy who has to clean the blood from the floor of the jumper, the med tech who has to deal with the triage aftermath, the scientist in the lab when everything went bad, etc.).

* * *

Mark Jarret is one hour into his first shift on Atlantis when he finds the chief scientist huddled against the far corner of the infirmary's isolation room.

Dr. McKay is wide-eyed, staring at a spot on the floor, and breathing hard. A thin line of blood trickles down the back of his hand, seeping a red slash across his white scrub pants where he's hugging his knees.

Mark's too stunned to move. As far as he knew, the man had been sedated just short of a medical coma. Slowly — very slowly because spooking hallucinatory patients only ever ends badly — Mark reaches for his radio.

"Don't."

Mark freezes before he realizes it isn't Dr. McKay.

"Don't move. Don't talk," the voice orders again, low and forceful. Then Mark sees him: Lt. Colonel Sheppard crouched a few feet away from Dr. McKay, his black BDUs blending into shadow. Eyes on Mark.

After a moment, Mark nods. If the colonel wants control of the situation, he isn't inclined to argue medical protocol.

Sheppard turns back to Dr. McKay.

"Hey, Rodney. Hey. It's not real," he says, moving forward. "You're okay. You're okay." He repeats it, hypnotic, and Dr. McKay's breathing slows. "Everything's okay."

Then Sheppard's in front of him, reaching out, and Dr. McKay flinches away, pressing himself against the wall with a small, desperate sound. Undeterred, the colonel places his hands firmly on his shoulders.

"C'mon, buddy, focus. Focus on me."

His next words are soft. Mark catches only "hallucination," Atlantis," and "safe."

They stay like that for minutes, crouched and huddled, locked together with words and touch. Mark's been a battlefield medic, an RN with Doctors Without Borders, a triage nurse at the SGC; he knows the connection soldiers forge. But this is more intimate, more like a bond between brothers. He feels uncomfortably like he's interrupting a family moment.

But before Mark can back out of the room, Dr. McKay blinks. His eyes find the colonel's. Focus.

"Sh'pprd?"

The colonel exhales. He squeezes Dr. McKay's shoulder. "Yeah, buddy, right here."

Dr. McKay frowns, looks upset. "You were dead. I couldn't. . . then you — "

"Not real, Rodney," Sheppard interrupts. "The drug they slipped you on Kartha, remember?"

Dr. McKay is quiet. Sheppard seems more disturbed by this than anything else from the last five minutes.

"Okay," Sheppard says and slips under Dr. McKay's arm, hauling him to his feet. "Let's get you back to bed."

"Teyla and Ronon?" Dr. McKay asks, his voice hoarse.

"Kartha. The antidote."

Dr. McKay nods vaguely. As they shuffle-walk, his eyes roam — the bed, his scrubs, his hand. "I'm bleeding," he says with surprise.

"Yeah. Pulled out your IV before I could stop you," Sheppard says, settling him on the bed. "I don't care what your fitness test says, McKay, you're fast when you want to be. Fast and strong."

Mark notices the bruise blossoming on the colonel's cheek just as Dr. McKay does.

"Jesus, Sheppard, why are you in here?" Dr. McKay asks, suddenly sharply coherent. "I'm half out of my mind. I could — "

"Rodney," Sheppard says, snatching a square of gauze from the cart beside the bed and pressing it to the back of Dr. McKay's hand. "Shut up."

"But — "

Sheppard looks Dr. McKay in the eye. There is a silent exchange, then —

"Fine," Dr. McKay huffs, though there's an undertone of relief. "Stay."

Mark slips out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Vote of Confidence  
**Author:** linziday  
**Rating:** PG  
**Spoilers:** Set in Season 5, before Inquisition  
**A/N:** Beta-ed by kriadydragon (Stealth Dragon)  
**Prompt for the Round:** Choose from two to all characters from the list and write a story in which there is no dialogue at all. There must be social interaction, but you can't write any dialogue. No other characters allowed, but can be mentioned.

* * *

He is never going off world again.

Never. Never ever. Never ever, no matter what, because it always, _always_ ends badly. He's not a soldier. He's not even a scientist. He's a _bureaucrat_. Three-piece suits have always been his uniform, the pen his weapon of choice. He's saved lives that way, his own way. Behind a desk.

Not in a damned field, not with blood on his hands and gunfire erupting around him. Around them.

He shields Teyla's unconscious body with his own — instincts screaming _lower, get lower_, but he braces himself, elbows locked, palms flat against jagged pebbles, so he doesn't touch her shoulder and side, doesn't even brush against the hastily bandaged gunshot wounds there. He doesn't know who's been shooting at them, but _their_ weapon of choice is clearly not the pen.

It was supposed to have been a milk run. Meet with the nice people of MX5-546, renew the trade treaty Dr. Weir had established three years before, and be home by dinner. So he went. He went with Lorne's team because there weren't supposed to be any threats and he went with Teyla because she knew the planet's trading traditions better than anyone and he went without a gun because _he's a bureaucrat_.

Except everything went to hell, and they got separated from the rest of the team, and Teyla covered him until —

A bullet whizzes by — so close to his head that he's sure it would have ruffled his hair if he had any. He bites back a yelp and slams his chin to his chest in an attempt to keep his head below the line of fire.

Underneath him, Teyla stirs.

He panics for a moment, certain she's going to snap awake and try to sit up. But she opens her eyes slowly and he shakes his head frantically, and the most unimaginable thing happens — she seems to understand him. Him or the bullets flying overhead.

She stays still, her breathing shallow, her eyes glazed with pain or shock, and he's suddenly desperate to offer some reassurance. But while his head buzzes with words, they're all self-directed. _Pathetic. Ineffectual. Weak._ For the first time in his life he wants to spit at the word _bureaucrat_. Teyla risked her life to protect him and there's precious little he can do to protect her.

But before he can say something, offer an apology, request forgiveness, Teyla grasps his wrist. Her fingers are warm, her grip strong despite her injuries. For a moment, her gaze clears.

She smiles at him.

It's a small one, the edges tight with pain lines, but it's a smile nonetheless. A smile like the one she had given him shortly after he arrived on Atlantis, the one that said _You're doing fine_.

Her confidence meant something then. It means even more now.

He slides his wrist up until his fingers meet hers, until it's his hand that she grasps. Teyla closes her eyes.

He holds on.

This he can do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Words  
**Author:** linziday  
**Rating:** PG-13 (cursing)  
**A/N:** Beta-ed by kriadydragon and karri_kln1671  
**Prompt for the Round:** Write a whump fic with John and ONE of his team. John POV.

* * *

Sheppard's across the field in just four seconds.

It's still too long.

"Fuck!" he exclaims, dropping to his knees beside Rodney. He knows shouting and swearing are exactly the wrong things to do if he doesn't want the other man to panic, but there's a massive amount of blood, bones are protruding through skin and the metal trap is still clamped around Rodney's leg, so Sheppard thinks he can be forgiven for a little immediate alarm, even if it doesn't help keep Rodney calm.

Except Rodney isn't panicking, Sheppard realizes, flicking his attention up from the field bandage tourniquet he's devising. Rodney doesn't flail, doesn't rant, doesn't so much as yelp when Sheppard pulls the tourniquet tight around his thigh with a grunt. Instead, he sits quietly and still, mouth open like he forgot what he was about to say.

"C'mon, buddy, talk to me here," Sheppard implores, pulling the trap open with both hands. He yanks it up from where it's staked to the ground and heaves it as far away as possible. He feels a frantic flutter in his chest when Rodney stays silent.

Sheppard tips his head to interrupt Rodney's line of sight, but Rodney doesn't even blink. His eyes are so wide that black swallows blue. Sheppard grasps Rodney's wrist. His skin's cold and clammy, his pulse fast.

Shock.

Rodney had something like a bear trap clamped around his leg and he's got at least three broken bones that Sheppard can see — literally — and while the bleeding's slowed thanks to the tourniquet, it hasn't stopped. Of course he's in shock. Of course. That doesn't stop Sheppard from saying "Fuckfuckfuck," fast and rough, under his breath. Apparently it's the word of the day.

But Rodney needs better words.

"This is nothing. Nothing," Sheppard says, shrugging out of his jacket. "Cast for a couple of months, you'll be fine. Hell, won't even stop you from working."

He keeps talking, filling the silence as he balls the jacket into a pillow. He talks as he puts one hand on Rodney's chest, one hand on his back, easing him to lie down. He talks as he checks Rodney's leg for a pulse, as he fashions a splint, as —

"Sh'pprd?"

It's low and rusty, almost whispered, but Sheppard's head snaps around as if Rodney's voice were a gunshot.

"Hey," Sheppard answers, and it's more an exhale of relief than a word.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Talk  
Author: linziday  
Rating: PG  
Spoilers: Through the first half of season five. Specific spoilers for Doppelganger and Ghost in the Machine  
AN: Beta'd by kriadydragon (Stealth Dragon)  
Prompt for the Round: Write a whump fic using Teyla and any female character(s). Teyla POV.

* * *

It happens, for a while, every night.

It's late. Teyla finds herself in the mess hall. Kate is there, at the team's table, with a cup of tea and a warm smile.

"Can't sleep?" Kate slides the cup across the table.

"No," Teyla admits. It's Kalum tea, her favorite, and still hot.

"Then," Kate says, "it's a good thing I'm here."

They talk about everything, nothing. About Teyla's team. About Kalum tea and hard mess hall chairs. They talk until the morning's first rays nudge away evening shadows.

Then, one night, it's different.

"Why can't you sleep?" Kate asks.

It startles Teyla, this new question. Something coils tight in her chest. She doesn't want to answer.

"Teyla?" Kate asks again. Gently. Encouragingly. Teyla looks down at her tea instead. It's steaming. It's always steaming.

"How's Torren?" Kate asks, changing the subject. Teyla feels the coil loosen just a bit, just enough. She's always happy to talk about Torren.

"He received many gifts for his first year," she says, looking up. "Ronon presented him a Satedan drum. Rodney gave him books, John a toy car."

"Books?"

Teyla smiles. "Mostly science texts. Books he assures me Torren will 'grow into.'"

"Mostly?"

Tightness again. "Rodney also presented a …photo book."

"A photo album." Kate smiles. "Unusually thoughtful for Rodney."

"The photos were a shared inspiration, I believe. Pictures of myself and Kanaan. Rodney, Ronon, and John. Jennifer." Teyla pauses. "Elizabeth."

Kate's smile vanishes. "Someone Torren will only know through pictures."

"But he — " Teyla stops herself. _He could have known her. If I had trusted her enough. _

"You didn't realize it was her."

Teyla shakes her head, dismissing Kate's words. She feels tears pool, hot. "I should have."

"You couldn't. You did — you _all_ did — what you needed to protect the city. Atlantis comes first. Elizabeth knew that. She insisted on it."

"She was my friend. Now my son will never know —"

"Torren will grow up safe in Atlantis." Kate leans forward. "He will know Elizabeth through you, Teyla. Through the city she protected. He _will_ know."

They're just words. They shouldn't help.

But for the first time in a long time, Teyla feels like she can rest.

She turns to tell Kate. But Kate is gone. When Teyla turns back, the mess hall is gone.

She's sitting up in bed.

To the empty room she whispers, "He will also know you."**  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**

* * *

Title:** There Are No Nightmares Here  
**Author:** linziday  
**Rating:** PG  
**Prompt for the Round:** Write a whump fic using Ronon with the team (any or all). Ronon POV. No other characters

* * *

.

It doesn't take Ronon long to find him.

The lab's not much of a hiding place.

"McKay," he says. "Bed."

Rodney jumps and whirls around on his stool. He sways slightly, reaching out with his good arm — the one not in a sling — to steady himself with a hand on the table.

"What?" he demands. He's pale, his eyes glassy and underlined with shadows.

"Sheppard sent me to make sure you sleep."

Rodney snorts, returning to his laptop. "Tell Sheppard I hope he's enjoying the good drugs and I'll sleep when I'm damn well— hey!"

Ronon grasps Rodney's shoulders and spins him around. In one swift motion he has him up and moving toward the door.

"Ronon!" Rodney squawks as he's propelled into the hall. "Dammit. Stop!"

Rodney jerks away and Ronon lets him. Rodney sways again, harder, and it's a hand to the wall that steadies him this time. He lifts his chin, eyes flicking to Ronon's then away.

"I can't sleep, okay? I tried. I close my eyes and I'm back trapped in that box. I can't see anything, but I can hear them torturing Sheppard outside and there's nothing I can do but listen to him grunt because he won't give them the satisfaction of screaming and I —" Rodney inhales sharply, shakes himself. "You could probably shrug it off, Conan, but I can't. So just. . . go. I need to work."

But Ronon's the one who found them. He knows what they went through.

Knows it isn't work that McKay needs.

He puts a hand flat on Rodney's back and propels him down the hallway, ignoring the sputtered threats and insults. The griping skids to a startled stop when they reach the east balcony.

"Sit," Ronon growls, pushing gently on Rodney's good shoulder until he complies. He drops down beside him.

"Ronon — "

"Work won't help you sleep."

Rodney grumbles and looks like he's going to get up and storm off, but exhaustion keeps him down. After a few moments, even the grumbling dies away.

The sky stretches before them, deep purple against the white moonlight. Light breezes blow warm and humid, rich with salt air. Waves lap softly against the side of the city.

It's as far from the small, dank prison box as anything could be.

A glance tells him Rodney's eyes have drifted shut. His breathing is deep and even.

Ronon stays, keeping guard.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title:** Necessary Evil  
**Author:** linziday  
**Rating:** G  
**Spoilers:** Up to and including 'Michael'  
**Prompt for the Round:** Write a fic set in the infirmary, but only having the medical staff as characters. OCs can be used, but there must be at least one canon character too.

* * *

Carson finds her in the storage closet, knees drawn to her chest. The infirmary's white light spills in when he opens the door, but he's certain that isn't why she looks so pale, why her eyes are squeezed shut.

"Donna," he says, low and soft. The immediate crisis is over, the clamor quiet behind him, so he knows she can hear him. She doesn't move.

He steps in, turns on the small light, and lets the door slide shut behind him. The light's dim, casting shadows candle-like, but it's enough to see by as he slides aside boxes of gauze to sit on the floor next to her. Carson stretches his legs out in front of him and folds his hands in his lap, radiating *everything's fine* and *we've all the time in the world*.

Even though what he feels is a chest-squeezing *bloody hell*.

It's happened before. Doctors. Nurses. Med techs. Some military, all experienced. None ready for the horrors of Pegasus. Donna's their newest, a kind, intelligent doctor stubborn enough to hold her ground with the likes of Rodney and charming enough to wheedle even Ronon into taking meds. Just weeks off the Daedalus. He'd hoped to spare her the worst of Pegasus a little while longer. Just a little while.

"I'm sorry," she says. The words are little more than a whisper, but they fill the closet.

"Don't be, lass," he says gently.

"I'll pack my things, be ready to — "

"You're not the first to need a wee respite here. There's no need of you going anywhere."

She looks at him, eyes glittering. He looks away before his own tears fall. He swallows hard. It's a long time before he trusts himself to speak.

"Atlantis is a beautiful city, but there is no beauty without ugliness, is there, lass?" he says softly, gazing at his hands. "No safety without defense. No saving without sacrifice. If there's a way to have good without bad, I haven't found it yet." He pauses, looks up. "If you know a way, I'd be grateful to hear it."

But there is no way. Carson knows she knows this because she's a doctor, same as he, and intimately familiar with necessary evils. Even if the Pegasus versions seem extraordinarily more evil. And extraordinarily more necessary.

Eventually, Donna stands, extends a hand. Carson jokes about old bones and she smiles. In that moment, all seems right.

Then, leaving, Donna pats his shoulder and whispers kindly, "I don't know how you do it, Carson."

The words hit him. Hard. For a second he can't breathe, can't move.

Then he forces himself forward, to return to the wraith Colonel Sheppard has named Michael.


	8. Chapter 8

**Title:** Rest for the Weary  
**Author:** linziday  
**Rating:** PG  
**Spoilers:** Up to and including Ghost in the Machine  
**Prompt for the Round:** Write a fic emphasizing the friendship and support the team has for each other. Use from two to all characters of the list.

* * *

Most of the time, they took turns.

Teyla coaxed him away with soft words, reminding Rodney that the city needed him, yes, but it needed him well rested.

"The Ancient database will still be here in the morning," she said and curled a hand lightly around his, ceasing the typing that had grown haphazard with the late hour. They stayed like that for a long moment, locked in the pause and silence of the lab, until Rodney finally his lifted bleary, weary eyes from the computer screen.

"No," he said, even though his voice was thin and tired, because 'no' was Rodney's default position, especially where sleep was concerned. But Teyla offered a small, wise smile and tugged him up from his stool, ignoring the grumbled protest. By the time they reached his quarters, the grumbling had died away.

Rodney fell asleep between one step and the next — just short of his bed, but close enough. Teyla eased him down, only then uncurling her fingers from his.

Ronon was, unsurprisingly, more straightforward.

"Bed," he barked.

Rodney hunched further over his computer, flapping his hand in a silent "Go away." But Ronon didn't believe in 'go away.' Half asleep, head aching, Rodney failed to remember that.

He squawked in surprise when Ronon manhandled him out of the lab.

In Rodney's room, Ronon pulled up the desk chair and sat between Rodney and the exit.

"I'm not tired," Rodney huffed, swaying a little as he stood.

"Yes, you are."

"I was working on the remote grounding station controls."

Ronon looked mildly interested. "Something that could explode?"

"No," Rodney snapped.

Ronon shrugged. "Then it'll wait."

"Ronon, dammit — "

Rodney advanced toward the door and Ronon stood, sending the rolling chair skittering away and into the desk with a thump. Rodney scrambled back, hit the bed and tumbled down onto it.

Ronon nodded with satisfaction. "Go to sleep, McKay," he said not unkindly. He retrieved the chair and sat down again.

Rodney glowered from the bed, crossing his arms over his chest. After a moment, his eyelids drooped. His shoulders sagged. He was asleep before Ronon got bored.

But when Rodney's sleepless nights became about something more than too much work, it was Sheppard who went.

"C'mon, McKay," he said, leaning against the doorframe, "time for all good — "

"—little physicists to go to bed, yes, thank you, Colonel." Rodney scrubbed at his face, then dropped his hands back to the laptop. "Shouldn't you be off finding new and fascinating ways to sacrifice yourself for the common good?"

Sheppard pushed off the wall, tried for the joke. "I've already met my suicide mission quota for the week."

Rodney snorted humorlessly and went back to typing with ferocity. Sheppard pulled up a stool, noting the fine tremors that ran through Rodney's body, a sign he'd blown past fatigue and was barreling toward exhaustion.

"McKay —"

"Leave me alone."

_"Rodney —"_

Rodney whirled around, revealing bloodshot eyes. "I don't _need_ to sleep. I _need_ to do this."

Sheppard's eyes flicked to the computer screen. "Elizabeth's project."

"She and the other replicators started it. I can finish it." Rodney stood, began pacing unsteadily.

Sheppard watched him. "A nanite assembled human body. You know how long that'll take."

"Years. Decades at this rate."

"Then one night won't —"

Rodney stopped and stared at him. Hurt. Betrayed. "It's Elizabeth," he said softly.

Sheppard swallowed hard. "I know, buddy."

"She's out there, floating out there, and that's my fault."

"Rodney."

Rodney shook his head. "My fault," he insisted tiredly.

Sheppard made a decision. He reached for the computer. "Give me the math."

Rodney blinked. "What?"

Sheppard scrolled through the screen. "You haven't started on the molecular issues, right? Still engineering the technology? I can do the math." He nudged a stool toward Rodney. "Take a break."

Rodney eyed the stool warily but sat down. "Sheppard — "

"Shh. Working."

The lab filled with the steady clicking of keys and Rodney slowly leaned against the worktable, pillowing his head on his arms. When Sheppard glanced up again, his eyes were closed.

It was 3 a.m., but Sheppard kept going, working to give Rodney peace as well as sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Title:** Sense of the Art  
**Author:** linziday  
**Rating:** PG-13 (cursing)  
**Prompt for the Round:** Write a fic telling us some backstory for any member of the team. It must take place before season 1 of the show and can include any characters, canon or OCs.

* * *

Meredith was 4 when they brought Jeannie home.

He was waiting at the door as they arrived, had been waiting for hours. Days. Months, it seemed. And then suddenly his mother was there, bending low so he could see the pink-swaddled bundle in her arms. "This is your sister," she said.

Jeannie was small and delicate, but she waved her tiny fists indignantly when his mother lifted the edge of the blanket. Meredith was entranced. He stood on his tiptoes, ran a light finger over Jeannie's chubby, baby-soft arm. Her blue eyes roamed, found his.

_My sister_, he thought. _Mine_.

He loved her instantly.

--

Meredith was 7 when his parents' fighting got bad.

"C'mon, Jeannie," he said, tugging his sister down the hall as their mother screamed at their father for being a _goddamnsonofabitch_. Jeannie's face crumpled and she clutched her tattered pink blanket to her chin, and Meredith knew she was about five second away from bawling. He tugged harder. "C'mon."

He towed her into his room and slammed the door shut, letting go of Jeannie's hand just long enough to yank the blanket off his bed. He pulled Jeannie down to huddle in the far corner, between his bed and bookshelf, and he swept the blanket up and over their heads.

"Mer?" Jeannie asked, her voice small. She leaned against him and sniffled.

"It's okay," he said and held the blanket above his head so it draped around them like a tent. "Because, see, we won't hear them in here."

But they could hear them, could hear the shouts of _jackass_ and _bitch_ and the sound of something hitting a wall and shattering. Jeannie whimpered.

Meredith wished he were brave enough to go out there. Brave enough to do some yelling of his own, like _stop it_ and _you're being stupid_ and _you're scaring Jeannie_. Brave enough not to be scared himself.

"Mer," Jeannie whispered, her voice low but her tone insistent. "Play, okay?"

It took Meredith a moment to understand what Jeannie was asking. His heart skipped a beat. "I can't. The piano's out _there_."

But the yelling reached a crescendo and Meredith knew he had to do something. If Jeannie wanted music, maybe he could turn on the radio or sing or —

"Wait, wait, wait." He snapped his fingers. "I know."

He tossed the blanket off, the sudden chill of air raising goosebumps on his arms. He snagged his toy piano from under the bed and retreated back the corner. The toy was small, only 25 keys. He hadn't played it since they'd gotten a real piano, the shiny upright in the living room, but now. . . .

Meredith hoisted the blanket back over their heads with one hand and tapped the faded white keys with the other. It was a tinny sound, out of tune, but he plucked out Jingle Bells and This Old Man and the theme to Sesame Street. Anything upbeat, happy. It wasn't nearly loud enough to drown out the still-angry voices, but it was something. He played on.

Soothed, Jeannie closed her eyes and snuggled close.

--

Meredith — _Rodney_ — was 12 when his piano teacher told him he was a fine clinical player but he possessed no passion.

No sense of the art.


	10. Chapter 10

**Title:** Just Say No  
**Author: **linziday  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Prompt for the Round:** The story must be told by a less used character and must be written in first person.

* * *

It is not that hard to say no to The Great Rodney McKay.

_No, you cannot have my coffee._

_No, I will not return to planet of small heathens._

"Radek, you idiot, just get out of here! I don't know how much longer I can hold this."

"No, I will not leave so you can explode and splatter like hotdog in microwave."

You see? Not hard.

Rodney cursed and twisted around, trying to see my scanner reading. The device he held above his head clicked once, loud in the abandoned room. We both froze.

One second.

Two.

Three.

I let out a breath and looked at Rodney. The blood had drained from his face and his eyes were squeezed shut. Fine tremors ran down his arms. He stood, holding up a cinderblock-sized device that could blow apart the city if he dropped it, or moved too much, or even sneezed. In an unnerving situation, kindness only unnerved him more. So —

"Also, please to not detonate early and take me with you."

Some days were supposed to involve explosives. I planned accordingly: much coffee, charged laptop, correct tools. This was supposed to be a non-explosive day, a day of cataloging.

The scanner was not enough.

I tapped my radio. "Colonel?"

"Two minutes out," he answered, out of breath as he ran. "How's he doing?"

"_He_ can hear you even though _he_ doesn't have a free hand to key the microphone." Rodney opened his eyes. "Tell Sheppard his marines are morons and the next time he and Ronon get busy training the new recruits, he damn well better not send Thing One and Thing Two with us. We would've been better off exploring Atlantis with. . . _fuck_. . . with a —" Rodney inhaled sharply. His arms trembled harder and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. "Just get his ass down here."

"Colonel," I said. My tone was enough. The radio channel filled with cursing and the sound of pounding boots.

A minute later the room was swarming with people. Medics, marines, engineers. Someone handed me my laptop and set up a ladder. I was halfway up to inspect the device from above when a medic jostled Rodney.

The _click-click_ echoed.

"Kurva drat," I breathed.

Rodney blanched again. "Are you all mentally deficient?" he yelled. "One click is a warning. Two means it's armed. Three means boom, people. _Boom_."

Ronon shoved away the medic and kept everyone at bay. I climbed the rest of the way up the ladder.

The colonel was at Rodney's elbow, head ducked to assess the underside of the device. But from the way his gaze traveled, it was Rodney he evaluated. "'Boom,' huh?" he teased.

"Boom, yes, highly technical term. Must have two PhDs to use it," I said, following his lead. An annoyed Rodney was a distracted Rodney and a distracted Rodney — well, would be much happier.

"Next time I'll call it a thermonuclear explosion with residual radiation blowback," Rodney grumbled. "Better?"

"Yes," Ronon said.

Rodney snorted. His arms stopped shaking long enough for me to connect a laptop to the device.

The colonel watched Rodney. "So what happened?"

"Your marines thought that console would be a nice place to lean," Rodney said. "Set off the backup self-destruct. Bomb. Crude but effective."

"And you, what, caught it barehanded?"

"Yes, Sheppard, because I am exactly that athletic," Rodney said. "It was lowered on a line. Probably to give time to rescind the command before it hit the ground and turned into a _thermonuclear explosion with residual radiation blowback_."

"Boom," Ronon said.

Rodney glared.

"Rodney intercepted it and the line retracted," I said. "But the device responded when he moved. The database — "

Rodney's arms spasmed. He screamed.

The colonel dove and grabbed Rodney's wrists, supporting his outstretched arms. "Any time now, Radek," he grunted.

The system thought the device had hit the ground, was autonomous. The device thought it _hadn't_ hit the ground yet —

"Radek!"

I typed furiously. Sensors! Cut power to its motion sensors.

"Done," I said. "Go carefully. It will still detonate with impact."

Rodney's eyes watered. "My muscled locked up. I can't, I don't think I can — "

"Easy, buddy," the colonel said. "Let us do the work, okay? We got you."

With little jostling, Ronon took the device from Rodney's hands. The colonel shifted Rodney away.

"_Crap_," Rodney hissed as the colonel helped him lower his arms.

"Yeah, you're going to feel that in the morning."

"Forget the morning. I feel it enough now." Rodney watched Ronon deliver the device to the bomb squad. His eyes tracked it until it was gone.

The medics swarmed again, but Rodney groused about "manhandling witchdoctors" and the colonel waved them off. "I got it, guys. I'll bring him to the infirmary."

By the time I climbed down from the ladder, the crowd was gone.

"Pretty brave there, Rodney." The colonel grinned.

Rodney looked dazed. "You know, I really deserve more money. Or at least a plaque of some kind."

"I hear there's chocolate cake tonight," the colonel offered.

Rodney rubbed his shoulder. "Okay."

They left while I finished packing up my tools.

Then Rodney returned. He still looked dazed.

"Hey," he said. "You know."

I stared for a moment. Blinked. Finally, I waved him back to the colonel and the waiting infirmary.

And I added another no to the list.

"No problem."


	11. Chapter 11

**Title:** In Sickness and In Health  
**Author:** linziday  
**Rating:** PG  
**Prompt for the Round:** The story must have ONE (and only one) of the following elements as the main cause of hurt: earth, water, fire OR air. At least two members of the team must be hurt.

* * *

John wakes to it, his throat dry and sticky as if he'd slept in the desert rather than the warm, humid team tent.

He ignores it during the trek back to the gate and through the quick debrief with Elizabeth ("Nice people. Good festival. No shooting."). He ignores it as they head to the infirmary, as he and Rodney debate whether the village elder did or didn't resemble the Penguin from Batman.

Then the back of John's throat prickles and he coughs, hard. Which he also would have ignored if Carson hadn't, at that moment, started his post mission exam.

"What's this now, lad?" Carson asks, frowning.

John waves away the concern. "Just a tickle."

"Hmm." Carson's eyes flick to John's, assessing, then away as he orders blood samples.

"Carson, I'm — "

"'Fine,' I know. Humor me," Carson says and pats his knee kindly before moving to Teyla.

From the next bed, Rodney glares.

"We shared a tent," Rodney informs him.

"Yes, I know, I was there."

"We shared _air_," Rodney emphasizes. "And you're sick."

"I'm not sick," John declares, then swallows hard to stop a cough.

But Rodney's observant today, or maybe mildly psychic, because he points at John and makes a declaration of his own. "Sick!" If it's possible, Rodney's glare gets more. . . glaring. "I will never forgive you if you've given me the plague."

John rolls his eyes. "I don't have the plague. I haven't given anyone the plague." But a few beds away, Ronon coughs hard. Inwardly, John groans.

He shouts to Ronon, "It's not the plague!"

--

It's not the plague.

It is, however, the Pegasus version of the flu. Which is nothing at all like the plague but gets the team sent to isolation anyway.

"Just for a wee bit. Until you're no longer contagious," Carson says, mask muffling his words.

Everyone's temperature is up a bit, but Teyla's the most, her face flushed with it. John and Ronon cough in something like a rhythm, a rough and ragged back-and-forth that makes John's chest ache. Rodney's so far the healthiest, just a minor fever and headache.

Carson leaves, telling them to rest, to call if they need anything in the night.

--

"I do not feel well," Teyla says an hour later. With a small twinge of panic, John realizes she's a little green.

They'd been warned about nausea. But while it's one kind of awful for him to vomit, there's something extra special horrific about watching someone else do it. Watching _Teyla_ do it.

Rodney and Ronon look just as alarmed.

"Um," Rodney says after a moment. And hands Teyla an emesis basin.

"Beckett?" Ronon asks.

"No. It will pass." She holds tight to the basin anyway.

Rodney and Ronon exchange whispered words. So John is suspicious when they appear oh-so-casually beside his bed.

"Not it," Rodney announces quietly.

"Me neither," Ronon agrees.

His inner 12-year-old must've already guessed their game because John's somehow not surprised when Rodney explains, "_You_ hold her hair back."

--

Ronon shrugs off gunshot wounds. Dizziness, however, has him flat on his back, gripping the sides of his bed as if it's a lifeboat about to capsize.

Teyla fell asleep a while ago, eyes drifting shut to the rise and fall of their voices. Talking was the best comfort they could offer, and it seemed to work. It's not working for Ronon.

Rodney frowns. "Maybe we should call Carson?"

"No," Ronon growls.

Rodney looks doubtful but John understands. Carson means drugs.

"Just go away," Ronon squeezes his eyes shut. "Go!"

Rodney says "Pfft" and pulls up a chair.

"As someone with childhood inner ear problems, I can tell you being alone makes it worse. You feel untethered, turning and spinning and — "

"McKay!" Ronon grips the bed harder.

"Sorry, sorry." Rodney looks scared for a second. Then resolute. He puts his hand on Ronon's shoulder. "This'll ground you. Just don't. . . hit me."

John considers pulling Rodney away, but Ronon's gradually loosening his grip on the bed. Soon his breathing evens out.

"Not bad," John whispers.

Rodney just asks, "Is it hot in here?"

--

John wakes at 3 a.m. to Rodney pacing woozily.

"When you think about it," Rodney says, looking at John with fever-bright eyes, "it's a miracle this doesn't happen more. All the germs floating in the air. In the air we _breathe_."

John blocks Rodney's path — palms up, placating, but solidly there so Rodney has to stop. "Hey, buddy, how about grabbing some sleep?"

"Already tried." Rodney's voice is small, weary.

Hand on his back, John moves him toward bed. "Tried?"

"Too hot to sleep. Too cold. Both."

John settles him on the bed and contemplates calling Carson. But Rodney's coherent, just tired and a little —

Rodney kicks off the blanket with a whine and immediately starts shivering.

— uncomfortable.

John fetches a wet cloth from the bathroom. When he returns, Rodney's sprawled unhappily on his stomach, covers bunched at the foot of the bed. He jerks with surprise when John lays the cool cloth on the back of his neck, then relaxes with a sigh. John pulls up the sheet, covering Rodney to his waist.

"Thanks," Rodney murmurs, eyes fluttering shut.

"Sure." John pads back to bed. By the time he gets there, Rodney's snoring softly.

John pulls up his own covers. Then he kicks them away.

--

The voices are indistinct, hazy.

"Sheppard — "

". . . nightmare. . . ."

"The fever —"

With effort, he opens his eyes. He's surrounded — Teyla on one side, carding her hands through his hair; Rodney on the other, eyes wide and worried; Ronon at the foot of the bed, hand on John's ankle.

His eyes slide closed again. No new nightmares come.

--

In the morning they're all still sick, but no one's thrown up, pitched off a bed in a fit of vertigo or collapsed from exhaustion.

"You didn't call me," Carson says. "How was your night?"

John glances at his team. "Nothing we couldn't handle."


	12. Chapter 12

**Title:** Selfless Acts of Misunderstanding  
**Author:** linziday  
**Rating:** PG  
**Prompt for the Round:** Your story must be told from a bad guy's POV, OC or canon, and must feature at least two members of the team, plus any other characters.

* * *

Ketras did not understand.

"You will not help?" He frowned. They had pledged assistance. _Had_. Now —

The four visitors stood. Three drew closer to one.

"Listen," Visitor Sheppard said, tone even but eyes snapping with anger, "we agreed to repair your harvest machine in exchange for a look at the energy readings in your temple. And we'll do that. Or we can forget the trade altogether if you want. But McKay won't — "

Ketras' guards secured them before he finished his sentence.

--

The harvest machine sat in honor in the village center, a reminder of a better past. A wish for a better future.

"Sure, we can get it running for you," Visitor Sheppard had said during trade talk.

"_We?_" Visitor McKay huffed.

"You," Visitor Sheppard amended. Then he turned to Ketras and said, "McKay fixes everything."

For a moment, Ketras had trouble speaking. "_Everything_?"

Visitor Sheppard grinned. "You name it."

Not only the harvest machine, then. The old water system, damaged energy generators, broken medical machines. Everything. He had offered Visitor McKay to fix everything.

But the next morning, Visitor McKay would not stay.

It was a breach of trade Ketras could not allow. His village feared the Wraith, but it needed that technology. They could not stand another famine. They could not suffer another sickness without cure.

They needed McKay.

--

Ketras neither beat the visitors nor threatened their lives, though others said he should. He separated them instead, secured in dwellings far apart.

"No, no, no. You only want me. Let them go," McKay said, twisting around to look back at his companions with panicked eyes as the guards hauled them apart. "They can't fix anything! They'll just take up space!"

"I am no fool," Ketras spat. "Your companions would return for you and destroy the village in retribution. They will remain until you agree to honor the trade, McKay."

McKay suddenly stopped. The guards propelled him forward. "Wait, wait, you dropped the 'Visitor' thing. Why — " McKay snapped his jaws shut, as if afraid the answer would escape his own lips.

"You are no longer a visitor," Ketras said. "Agree now or later, you will stay with us."

And McKay would be treated that way. An able adult who did not work, did not eat. McKay would change his mind about the repairs in time.

--

After missing mid-day and evening meals, McKay wanted to talk.

Ketras found him pacing the length of the dwelling. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

"I know you don't want to feed me," McKay said. "Why waste food on a prisoner, right? But the thing is, I get sick when I don't eat. Hypoglycemia. I've already got the headache and nausea and I'll only get sicker and eventually — " He stumbled, catching himself with a hand on the wall. He straightened, turned around. "I need to eat."

Ketras was unconvinced and unmoved. "Will you stay and help?"

McKay lifted his chin. "I'll fix the harvest machine. We agreed and I. . . but I can't stay. My friends need me."

"My village needs you."

"I can't."

Ketras left.

--

The moon was high when a guard woke him. "McKay complains of sickness, Elder."

Ketras was up and pulling a tunic over his sleep clothes before his mind cleared. He paused. "Complains of sickness or _is_ sick?"

The guard looked uncertain. "He has not moved in hours."

"It's night," Ketras reasoned. "He is tired."

"His hands shake."

"Fear."

"His words do not always make sense."

"That is not new!" Ketras returned to bed.

--

In the morning, McKay told his guards he would stay.

Ketras strode to the dwelling, pleased. He settled the matter without violence or injury. And with McKay's help, his village would have a future. He entered the dwelling with a feeling of celebration.

Then he saw McKay.

He sat hunched on the floor, back against the bed, head dropped forward. Trembling. He looked up with effort.

"I'll w'rk," he slurred. "Let 'em go."

Ketras signaled the guard. "Get his leader," he instructed. "Get him now."

--

McKay would not to eat.

Not the sweet bread Ketras carried from his interrupted morning meal. Not the stew Ketras ordered brought. McKay mumbled about freeing his team, then turned his clouded gaze to the floor.

Ketras was more relieved to see Sheppard than he would admit.

"Jesus, McKay." Sheppard dropped to a crouch and pressed his fingers to the inside of McKay's wrist. He turned McKay's face toward him. "Hey, buddy. When's the last time you ate?"

"Last morning," Ketras told him. "He would not work and — "

Sheppard launched to his feet with such ferocity that Ketras automatically took a step back. The guards started forward, but Ketras waved them off.

"He needs to eat," Sheppard gritted out.

"I tried." Ketras gestured to a bowl on the table. "He refused."

Sheppard snatched up the bowl and crouched in front of McKay again, stirring the stew. The scent of warm vegetables wafted through the room.

McKay's head snapped up. Eyes wide, he scrambled back and onto the bed, pressing against the wall. "No, no, no. Won't let you go if I eat."

Ketras shook his head. "That is untrue. He is confused."

Sheppard moved slowly forward. "C'mon, Rodney. You need food."

"No!" With a quick motion, McKay knocked the bowl from Sheppard's hand.

"Dammit." The word was angry, but there was fear in Sheppard's eyes. "I never thought I'd say this, but so help me, Rodney, if you don't eat I'll get Ronon to hold you down and I'll force-feed you myself."

McKay only pressed harder against the wall.

"Get his pack. I — "

McKay seized, shaking the bed so hard it skittered along the floor. It lasted a few seconds. Then he fell still.

Ketras' breath caught in his chest. "He is — "

"Unconscious," Sheppard growled, scooping McKay up and over his shoulder. "But unless you want him to die here. . . ."

"Go. Go!"

"Ronon and Teyla?"

Ketras looked to a guard, who ran off. "Being released now."

Carrying McKay, Sheppard charged toward the ring. Ketras kept up for the first steps. "I am sorry. I would never. . . I just needed help for my people."

Sheppard's stride didn't break.

Then they were gone.

--

The Atlanteans would want retribution.

Ketras sent everyone to the caves. McKay's sickness was his fault. When the Atlanteans returned, they could have their vengeance with his blood.

Ketras waited two days before the ring lit to life, producing four people he knew. Then stranger after stranger carrying tools and equipment. The Atlanteans had returned.

With help.


	13. Chapter 13

******* AN:** This is the unedited version of the last round fic. (Ch. 12) All fics had word limits and I had to do a lot of cutting with them all to get them to fit after I'd written them. But this one gave me fits! The limit was 1,100 words. I think I cut 500. So here's that **uncut **version....

* * *

Ketras did not understand.

"You will not?" He frowned. He must have heard wrong. "You will not help us?"

The visitors had participated in the pre-harvest festival. They drank the dalhad wine and shared bread and pledged assistance. Now they were turning away?

"I am sorry, Elder, but we did not. . . understand. Our ways differ from yours."

Ketras stood suddenly, his chair scraping back across the floor. He leaned forward, palms flat against the top of the negotiation table. "There are not 'your ways' and 'our ways,' Visitor Emmagan. There is only the right way."

The four visitors stood as well, more slowly, more deliberately than Ketras had. Three drew subtly closer to one. Visitor Emmagan may have offered an apology, but none looked sorry.

"Listen," Visitor Sheppard said, his tone reasonable but eyes snapping with anger, "we agreed to repair your harvest machine in exchange for a look at the energy readings in your temple. And we'll do that. Or we can forget the trade altogether if you want. But we won't — "

Ketras' guards had them secured before Visitor Sheppard finished his sentence.

--

Ketras thought his prayers had been answered when the visitors walked through the ring. The village had regular traders, yes, but none with the Atlanteans' technology. The harvest machine sat in a place of honor in the village center, a reminder of a better past and a hope for a better future. When the four visitors appeared, Ketras believed that future had come.

"Sure, we can get it running for you," Visitor Sheppard had said during talk of trade.

"_We_?" Visitor McKay huffed.

"You," Visitor Sheppard amended. Then he turned to Ketras and said, "McKay fixes everything."

Ketras found it hard to speak for a moment. "Everything?"

Visitor Sheppard grinned. "You name it.

Not just the harvest machine. The old water system, the damaged energy generators, the broken medical machines. _Everything_.

Visitor Sheppard had offered Visitor McKay to fix everything.

But in the morning, Visitor McKay balked at staying.

It was a breach of trade Ketras would not stand for. _Could not_. His village still feared the Wraith, but it needed that technology. They could not stand another famine like the one that had taken so many lives last season. They could not deal with another sickness without cure.

They needed Visitor McKay.

--

Ketras was not cruel. He neither beat the visitors nor threatened to take their lives, though some in the village thought he should have. He separated them instead, securing the three in one dwelling and McKay in a second dwelling far across the square.

"No, no, no. You only want me, right? So let them go," McKay said to Ketras, twisting around to look back at his companions with panicked eyes as the guards hauled him away and toward his dwelling. "They can't fix anything! They'll just. . . just. . . take up space."

Ketras spat at the ground, the bitter taste of anger too much. "I am no fool. Your friends would return for you and destroy the village in retribution. Your companions will remain until you agree on your own to honor the trade, McKay."

McKay suddenly stopped and the guards pushed him forward. "Wait, wait, you dropped the 'Visitor' thing. Why did you — " McKay snapped his jaws shut, as if afraid the answer would escape his own lips.

"You are no longer a visitor," Ketras told him. "Whether you decide now or later, you are here to stay."

And Ketras would treat him that way. An able adult who did not work, did not eat. McKay would change his mind about the repairs after a couple of days without food.

--

It did not take days. After missing just the mid-day and evening meals, Ketras learned McKay wanted to talk.

Ketras found him pacing the length of the dwelling. He was sweating, a fine sheen across a face that looked pale, and Ketras wondered how long he'd been moving.

"I know you don't want to feed me," McKay said as soon as he entered. "I can understand that. Why waste food on a prisoner, right? But the thing is, I get sick when I don't eat. Hypoglycemia. I've already got the headache and nausea and I'll only get sicker and eventually I'll — " He stumbled, catching himself with a hand on the wall. He straightened and turned around, facing Ketras. "I need to eat."

Ketras was unconvinced and unmoved. "Will you stay and help us?"

McKay lifted his chin. "I'll fix the harvest machine. We agreed and I. . . but stay? I can't. My people need me."

"My village needs you," Ketras told him.

"I can't."

Ketras left him to pace.

--

The moon was high when a guard woke him. "McKay complains of sickness, Elder."

Ketras was up and pulling a tunic over his sleep clothes before sleep truly cleared from his mind. He paused. "Complains of sickness or _is_ sick?"

The guard looked uncertain. "He has not moved in many hours."

"It's night," Ketras reasoned. "He is tired."

"His hands shake."

"Fear."

"His words do not always make sense."

"That is not new!" Ketras pulled off the tunic and returned to bed. "Do not wake me with his complaints again."

--

In the morning, McKay told his guards he would stay.

Ketras strode to the dwelling, pleased. In just one day he had settled the matter absent violence, absent injury. And with McKay's help, his village would have a future. He entered the dwelling with a feeling of pride.

Then he saw McKay.

He was sitting hunched on the floor with his back against the bed and his head dropped forward. Trembling. He looked up slowly when Ketras entered, as if it took effort to raise his head.

"I'll w'rk," he slurred. "Let the others. . . the others. . . go."

Ketras signaled the guard. "Get his leader," he instructed. "Get him now."

--

McKay would not to eat.

Not the sweet nut bread Ketras carried from his interrupted morning meal. Not the stew Ketras ordered brought. McKay mumbled about freeing his team and turned his head away, clouded gaze on the floor.

Ketras was more relieved to see Sheppard than he would admit.

"McKay?" Sheppard crossed the room in two quick steps, dropping into a crouch in front of him. He pressed his fingers to the inside of McKay's wrist, then turned his face gently toward him. "Jesus, Rodney. When's the last time you ate?"

"Last morning," Ketras told him. "He would not work and — "

Sheppard launched to his feet with such ferocity that Ketras automatically took a step back. The guards started forward, but Ketras waved them off.

"He needs to eat." Sheppard clenched his fists at his sides.

"I tried." Ketras gestured to a bowl on the table. "He refused."

"Right," Sheppard said with a sharp edge of mistrust. He snatched up the bowl and crouched in front of McKay again. He stirred the stew with the spoon and the smell of warm vegetables wafted through the room. "Hey, buddy. Food."

McKay's head snapped up, eyes unfocused. He scrambled back and up onto the bed, pressing his back against the wall. "No, no, no."

Sheppard froze. "Rodney?"

"Won't let my team go if I eat."

Ketras shook his head emphatically. "That is untrue. He is confused."

Sheppard moved slowly toward McKay. "C'mon, buddy. You need to eat."

"No!" With a quick motion, McKay knocked the bowl out of Sheppard's hand. "Not 'til they're safe."

"Dammit," Sheppard said. "Never thought I'd say this, but so help me, Rodney, if you don't eat I'll get Ronon to hold you down and I'll force-feed you myself."

McKay only pressed harder against the wall.

"Get his pack," Sheppard said. "I need — "

McKay suddenly seized, shaking the bed so hard it skittered along the floor. It lasted barely a few seconds, just long enough for Sheppard to reach him. Then he fell still.

Completely still.

Ketras' breath caught in his chest. "He is — "

"Unconscious," Sheppard growled, scooping McKay up and over his shoulder. "But unless you want him to die here. . . ."

"Go. Go!"

"Ronon and Teyla?"

Ketras' eyes flicked to one of the guards and the man ran off. "Being released now."

Carrying McKay, Sheppard charged toward the ring. Ketras kept up with him for the first steps. "I did not know. I am sorry," he said, begging forgiveness. He would never take a life. "I just needed help for my people."

Sheppard's stride didn't break.

Then they were gone.

--

The Atlanteans would want retribution. They would return with weapons and soldiers to avenge McKay's death. Or his near-death if, by some grace of the Ancestors, he survived.

Ketras sent everyone to seek refuge in the caves. McKay's sickness was his fault. When the Atlanteans arrived, they would find him alone. If they wanted vengeance, they could have it with his blood.

Ketras waited two days before the ring lit to life, producing four people he knew. Then stranger after stranger carrying boxes and tools and equipment.

The Atlanteans had returned.

With help.


End file.
